


It Happened One Night

by kalpurna, longnationalnightmare



Category: Pod Save America (RPF)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Sex, Barebacking, Biting, First Time, Just the Tip, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Possessive Behavior, Rimming
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-17
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-12-16 15:55:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,729
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11832042
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalpurna/pseuds/kalpurna, https://archiveofourown.org/users/longnationalnightmare/pseuds/longnationalnightmare
Summary: Rank filth, enjoy.





	It Happened One Night

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to drunktuesdays for audiencing.

 

 

It’s past midnight when Jon startles awake out of nowhere, for no reason he can discern. They’ve been sharing motel rooms for a week already on their post-college road trip to see the country, and in that time, Jon’s gotten used to most of Lovett’s night-time noises. He’s gotten used to his little sighs as he falls asleep, and the way he tosses when caught in a dream, and even the swearing when he walks into the wall, looking for the bathroom at 3:00 AM. But tonight he's been dragged awake, and he's not sure why.

There’s a sliver of moonlight at the window where the curtains won’t quite draw closed, but the room is otherwise dark and silent; no reason Jon would have woken—nothing disrupting the stillness—except—

It’s the faintest rustle. Jon keeps breathing, in and out, deep and even. His eyes are closed. From the other bed—just a few feet away—the faintest rustling—

It’s rhythmic.

Jon can feel his heart pounding. He can make out something brushing against the bedspread. A slick little sound, the rasp of uneven breath, a muted _ah_. And, when Jon opens his eyes the slightest crack, lying on his side, facing Lovett’s bed through the gloom of the room: stifled movement beneath the covers. It’s impossible to discern details, but Jon can see that Lovett’s head is tipped back, throat white in the dark, and that his eyes are squinched shut. His mouth is slack. His hands—

Lovett’s _jacking off_ , Jon thinks, the starkness of this fact cutting abruptly through his sleep-haze. Lovett’s fully, one hundred percent, no-question-about-it jacking off, in the same room as Jon, one bed over; his hand is on his dick, stroking himself, Jesus Christ.

Lovett makes another little noise—the kind of sound so faint it could be an aborted groan or a deep exhalation—it could be anything, but what it is right now is shocking. Jon closes his eyes again in a kind of fugue, mind racing.

It’s been—thanks, Lovett-of-two-weeks ago, who got sharier than he almost ever has under the influence of four shots of tequila—a while since Lovett got laid.

That’s a fact that Jon knows.

It’s been a while since Lovett got laid, which he’d told Jon _freely_ , and to which Jon, also tequila drunk, had replied, "but you could get it _easy_ if you wanted," Lovett saying, "fuck off—"

"But you _could_ ," Jon had insisted.

"Thanks," Lovett said, sucking on his lime wedge, frowning. "I was definitely angling for a pep talk, this wasn’t an accidental humiliating overshare at all," and Jon had said, "it’s not _humiliating_ , just—point out a guy. I’ll be your wingman—"

"Pass," Lovett had said flatly, and went to get another round of drinks. And tequila-Jon forgot within minutes what they’d even been talking about, but sober Jon didn’t. Hasn’t. Sober Jon has thought about this fact— _been a while_ —more than he, maybe, should have— _since I got laid—_

Sober Jon remembers how hungry Lovett had looked.

Sober Jon remembers thinking, just for a moment: _you need a guy? I can be that guy._

And now he’s lying here, trying hard to fake sleep, _getting_ hard, he can feel his dick stirring, and Lovett’s dick must be hard, too, and Jon wants to know. Jesus. He wants to know what it looks like.

Jon has friends he’s seen naked a million times, guys who’ll strip off without a thought, communal-shower, slap-your-ass-after-a-pickup-game, swing-their-dick-in-circles-as-a-joke friends: friends whose junk he could probably ID in a lineup if he absolutely had to.

Lovett is not one of those friends.

Lovett is a change-in-the-bathroom kind of a friend. Lovett is a t-shirt-in-the-pool kind of friend. Jon’s seen Lovett’s calves, his bare feet, his forearms and the swell of his biceps disappearing into a short sleeve. He’s seen the hollow of Lovett’s throat and the pink tips of his ears when he’s embarrassed but pretending not to be. He’s seen, occasionally, so occasionally that he only now knows how much the rarity has been eating at him, Lovett’s pale stomach and chest, and he has never once—never _once_ —seen Lovett’s dick, which is—

—unfucking _fair._ That’s how it feels right now.

" _ah_." A startled intake of breath. A wet sound, almost a squelch, that must be—is Lovett _fingering_ himself?

Later, Jon’ll say: I was basically asleep. He’ll say: I didn’t know what I was doing. He’ll say, maybe, I shouldn’t have—or—I wasn’t thinking—and it won’t be _false_ because he isn’t, he isn’t really thinking, it feels more like dreaming, to wake up with something he wants—suddenly knowing how much he wants it—so close, and knowing that—

He almost doesn’t register that he’s moved until his feet are flat on the carpeted floor. _Oh_ , he observes. _I’m getting up_. And he is: feet on the floor, rising, walking the two steps across to Lovett’s bed, where abruptly all movement has stopped, the silence so absolute that it seems suddenly like Lovett mustn’t have been trying to stay quiet at all. _Loud_ , Jon thinks, _for me. Did you want me to hear?_ and he’s touching the cover of Lovett’s bed, his hand is skimming it, it’s not _impossible_ that Lovett hasn’t noticed—it isn’t—maybe _Jon’s_ been quiet enough, maybe his touch is light enough, he could still turn around, if he could get a handle on the relationship between his brain and his body—his thoughts and his actions—he could still turn—

"Jon?"

Lovett’s voice is hoarse, uncertain and tense, and Jon is—well. Jon’s in the river.

Can’t go back.

"Shhh," he says, and he’s crawling into the bed, bracing one hand near Lovett’s head and hearing his breath quicken, he’s swinging a knee across Lovett’s waist and peering down through the dark at the gleam of Lovett’s wide eyes, he’s bending, mattress creaking beneath them, to kiss him.

Lovett’s still. Jon’s never, maybe, experienced such stillness before, especially not from Lovett, _especially_ when, when he raises two fingers to the side of Lovett’s throat, still kissing him gently, he can feel Lovett’s pulse jackrabbitting.

"Shh," he says again, pressing his own mouth softly against Lovett’s.

Lovett’s never, in Jon’s experience, failed to produce a reaction to _anything_ , even when that reaction is just turning and leaving as fast as he can, but he isn’t fight _or_ flight right now; he’s frozen, breathing shallowly, lips barely parted beneath Jon’s.

Jon kisses his closed mouth a little more, half-drunk, half-dreaming. Then licks at the seam of Lovett’s lips and presses closer, demanding more, so that Lovett has no choice, it feels, but to yield beneath him, mouth parting, hips hitching a little beneath Jon’s ass.

"That’s good," Jon murmurs into his mouth, and moves to press kisses along Lovett’s jawline, down to his throat. He sucks at the skin above Lovett’s Adam’s apple until he starts and groans, genuinely, and grinds up.

Jon doesn’t know what he wants, or, what he wants first. He has a hand on Lovett’s bicep, tense beneath his touch. He rubs his thumb against the skin, up under the cuff of his sleeve. It’s gratifying—almost more than he can believe—when Lovett shivers suddenly and, as if his body’s decided something for him, noses at Jon until they’re kissing again, deep and wet, this time, and increasingly desperate, Lovett arching up beneath him for long moments before he pulls back again and says, " _Jon_ ," breathless and confused and Jon wants to eat him _alive_ , he wants—

"What do you need, honey," he says, low.

Lovett shivers again, eyes opening, says, a little clearer, "Favs, I’m not fucking kidding—"

"Shut up," Jon says. He sucks a mark onto the thin skin beneath Lovett’s ear, until Lovett’s panting instead of talking, then pulls off and repeats, "What do you need," shoving the covers down and out from under him, batting them back off the bed, so that he’s sitting flush against Lovett’s—actually, fuck, bare cock. He must have kicked his boxers off before he started. Lovett’s stark naked from the waist down, just wearing his t-shirt, now, and Jon’s gonna. "Gonna do whatever I want to you," he says, _crazy_ , crazy—but—

"Oh my God," Lovett says faintly, and shudders, which is nothing like a no. Jon isn’t, honestly, paying much attention; he’s staring down at the tip of Lovett’s flushed dick, pressing one thumb to its head, wet with precum, so that Lovett groans again, "oh God, oh God," and then it’s just that Jon can’t stop—he _should_ stop, he thinks, a little desperate, but that’s a dim directive from his superego and—he _can’t_ stop talking, "gonna take care of you," he says, moving to grip Lovett’s sides, hands sliding up, rucking Lovett’s t-shirt as they go, so that his thumbs are brushing across Lovett’s nipples, up and back, and then he’s tweaking them on purpose, palming Lovett’s pecs, "gonna give you whatever you need, what do you need—"

Lovett’s gasping instead of answering, flinching away from Jon’s touch and then back into it. His shirt is bundled beneath his armpits and Jon shoves it further up, up over his head, and leaves it, so that Lovett’s arms are trapped. "Gonna do _everything_ to you," he says, and bends to suck at one of Lovett’s nipples, then bites it, nasty, whole body prickling with want when Lovett cries out.

"Can’t believe you’re not getting it every night," Jon says, suckles a little more, "every night, every day, that’s how often you need it, huh?" Lovett’s heaving huge breaths, ragged sound, and Jon raises his head to look at him, at his pink face, his wild eyes. He rubs his palms roughly across both of Lovett’s pecs. "I’m gonna take care of you," he says, clear as he can. "I’m gonna fuck you so good you won’t need it again for days, but you’re gonna get it anyway—gonna fuck you as often as I want—" and shoves the shirt all the way off Lovett’s arms, then slides right down and gets a hand around his cock.

Lovett’s dick is rock hard and hot and fat in Jon’s hand, perfect size, perfect shape, so good it makes his mouth water. So does the noise Lovett makes when Jon grips him: a strangled shout, hips bucking up into it, body begging.

"Shh, I know," Jon says, "you want it, I know you want it," but he’s not, God, he’s not here to give Lovett a handjob, Lovett can give _himself_ a handjob, Lovett can jack himself off anytime he wants. Jon wants to give him what he can’t get from himself. So he releases Lovett after a second, letting his hand travel heavily across Lovett’s hip, around to the swell of his ass, worming his fingers between Lovett and the mattress, feeling for—

Lovett’s hole is hot to the touch, and soft, too, and more than that—Jon feels like he’s running a fever—it’s slick, slippery, a little loose and clutching, like Lovett’s been fucking himself open—because he _has_ been fucking himself open—

—someone’s making a noise and it’s _Jon_ , a noise he didn’t even know he could make. Because while Lovett gasps and Jon rubs his thumb roughly back and forth against his hole, Jon’s thinking about it. He’s gonna be thinking about it for the next ninety years: about Lovett glancing over at Jon’s bed, thinking he’s asleep, and slicking his fingers up, quiet, quiet, cursing the sound of the cap clicking open, cursing the sound of the lube dripping out onto his hand, but desperate; too desperate to think better of it. Glancing again at a sleeping Jon and fumbling for his own hole—bad angle, rough on the wrist, but needing it—fiddling one finger in and then two, trying hard to fuck himself without the mattress moving, the springs squeaking. Almost crying at the insufficiency.

"Lo," Jon says, and kisses his hip, sucks hard. He wants to mark Lovett _everywhere_. "You need it so bad," and when Lovett just groans a little, he insists, "tell me."

"What." Lovett’s voice is hoarse.

"Tell me you need it, baby," Jon says, and lets the tip of his finger slip into Lovett’s hole, just the _tip_ , but Lovett’s squirming back onto it right away, "sweetheart—"

"fuck—"

"tell me you need it," Jon says. His own voice sounds, against his will, almost frantic. "Lo, _tell_ me."

"I need it," Lovett says, almost a sob, and Jon lets his whole finger slide in, easy because Lovett’s ass wants it so bad, eats it right up.

"Good," he says, and fucks it in and out a few times. There’s not a lot of room to move, but Lovett’s working with him, lifting his hips, so hungry that when Jon wriggles his hand back out into the open, he practically sobs with frustration. His chest is blotchy with blushing.

"I know," Jon says, and smacks his hip lightly, a crisp sound that cuts through the still air. "Come on." He shoves Lovett over, rolls him right onto his stomach, and lets his hand slide up Lovett’s back. He pets the nape of his neck, bends to kiss it and then sucks kisses all the way down his spine, going slower than he means to because Lovett sounds so _good_ when he’s frustrated. He sounds like it’s hard for him to breathe, half-whispering—amazing, insane—"Jon, please, God, _please_ , fucking—" until Jon gets down to his ass and settles in, spreads his cheeks.

He takes a second to stare while Lovett tenses from head to toe. His hole is red and wet and clenching on nothing. _Jon just had a finger in there._ He wants to fuck it so full that Lovett cries, that he cries and keeps begging for more.

"Okay," he says, nonsensical, and lets himself tighten his grip on Lovett’s ass, and presses his mouth to Lovett’s hole.

Lovett shouts—he does definitely shout—but Jon can’t really focus on that, it’s white noise in his ears. He’s kissing Lovett’s hole, soft at first, still slightly disbelieving, and then harder, stroking his tongue across the rim, feeling Lovett clench and release beneath him. It was clear that Lovett liked his finger, but that’s nothing to how obvious it is that he loves _this_. Jon feels attuned to Lovett’s reactions like they’re his own. His muscles are tense at first, but soon enough he relaxes. Jon can feel his hole get loose and pliant, opening beneath Jon’s tongue, sweetly welcoming.

Jon holds Lovett in place with one arm across the small of his back, pinning it to the bed, and the other around his thighs, lifting his hips for Jon to get his face in. He eats him out as messily as he wants to, until Lovett’s ass is slick with spit and he’s whimpering, pressing back, body limp with pleasure. It’s so good that Jon never wants to stop. But after awhile he can’t help himself: he draws back to get a look.

Lovett’s ass is so. God. Jon doesn’t know what to say; he's won contests with his writing, but he doesn’t know, it’s so _good_ , soft and rounded and pale. So pale that when Jon squeezes it, the skin pinks up and stays that way for a long moment, even after his fingers are gone. He squeezes again, and again, then smacks it once, lightly, and watches Lovett shock and push back for more—smacks it again, watches the skin flush red—watches until Lovett says, "Jon, come on—"

"what—"

"please—"

"what," Jon says, and Lovett says, "your _mouth_ , please—"

"Greedy," Jon says, and slides a finger into Lovett’s ass, easy as anything, a quick slide, so that Lovett gulps shockily and groans. Jon can’t even imagine denying him. He’s bending before he can think to lick around his own finger, to kiss the soft pucker of Lovett’s hole where it’s stretched the littlest bit. He keeps his finger fucking in and out while Lovett trembles and hitches back, sharp, juttering little movements, like he can’t control himself, or isn’t even trying.

When Jon pulls his finger back out, just as abruptly as he fucked it in, Lovett says, " _Jon_." He sounds like he might cry. His hole clenches on nothing.

"Shhh," Jon says. "You’ll get it when I give it to you." The words seem to come from somewhere very far away.

He presses his face back into Lovett’s ass for a minute, licks him out, conciliatory, then bites at Lovett’s left cheek, his right, his left again, turning back and forth. Slow, worrying bites that leave stark, red and white indented toothmarks when he raises his head. Lovett wriggles and whimpers, and shrieks, once, when Jon bites a little harder, so that Jon has to murmur, "shhh, shh, you’re gonna wake the whole hotel, honey, do you want everyone to know—" God—"how slutty you are, how bad you need it. Tell me."

"I _need it_ ," Lovett hisses, high and crazy. Jon knows he does, he can feel Lovett shivering practically out of his skin. He needs it and Jon’s gonna give it to him. It’s his job. It’s the greatest, most important job he’s ever goddamn had.

"I know," he says, and manhandles Lovett into place, drags him back so that Jon’s dick is nudging at his spit-slicked crack, rutting a little, brainlessly, towards the heat he wants.

If Jon had his say, it would be broad daylight. That’s all he can think, dick sliding along Lovett’s crack. He watches Lovett clutch the sheets with frustration, pressing back, his back one long beautiful line, and wants to _see_ everything. He wants to see it all in technicolor. And he _can’t_ , now; it’s so dim, not enough light—he can’t see all the exact shades of red on Lovett’s ass, can’t see in perfect detail each mark he’s left on Lovett’s skin. He needs proof that this is happening: that he’s touching Lovett, and that those touches are permanent, unforgettable.

 _Tomorrow_ , he thinks, _I’m gonna fuck you in the back of the car—no, on the hood of the car, I’m gonna fuck you on the hood of the car—by the side of the road—so that every idiot who drives by gets to watch you fall apart on my cock, gets to watch you fuck yourself raw on my cock—gets to see what he can’t touch—_

But before he can think anymore, Lovett’s—jesus, Lovett’s losing it, all of a sudden. He’s thrashing around, angling his ass up like he might be able to slip himself right onto Jon’s dick, sobbing with frustration when it doesn’t work. He says, "If you don’t, God, if you don’t, I’m gonna," and Jon feels—it’s such a messy feeling that he can’t wrap words around it. Tender, he guesses. He feels tender and reckless and wild. He thinks about Lovett’s sweet, hot hole, how badly it wants _something_ , how little he’s given it, watches his own dick nudge at its slick rim; he thinks that if he doesn’t fuck into Lovett _soon_ , Lovett’s gonna kill him, Lovett needs it, he needs it, Jon’s gonna—he just needs to find a—God, he needs to find a—

Only, to his own shock, Lovett _does_ shove right back onto him. Jon’s ninety—eighty—he’s pretty sure he wasn’t _actually_ gonna fuck right into Lovett, that he was gonna find a condom, that he was gonna be smart, be good. That he was, at _most_ , gonna fuck Lovett’s crack a little more, with more intent, or feed the tip of his dick into Lovett’s hole, but just for a second. He was gonna. He was gonna be good. But the way it feels when Lovett spears himself, fucks back with a shout and a sob—the way it feels to be bare inside the heat of Lovett’s body—

Jon’s fucked without a condom before. He _has_. But he hasn’t done it often and he hasn’t done it with _Lovett_. His hand, he realizes suddenly, is gripping Lovett’s hip so tightly it must hurt, but Lovett’s just fucking back, clenching on Jon’s cock, like he doesn’t mind that Jon’s nails are digging into his skin. Just clenching _tight_ and fucking back, getting what he wanted. Lovett _loves_ getting what he wants, doesn’t he? He must feel so fucking satisfied. Well, then, fine—

Jon unclenches his hand, with a strange sharp feeling of satisfaction when Lovett _does_ hiss at that, and moves it higher. He spreads his fingers across Lovett's upper back, presses him down, and finally, finally fucks into him on purpose.

It feels unreal.

Lovett cries out and Jon presses harder, harder on his back, fucks in again and then a third time, resettling his knees for leverage, watching Lovett jerk beneath him, bracing himself into each thrust.

Jon feels, wildly, like he’s taking Lovett over; like he’s conquering him completely. For all his squirming and his outsized personality, he’s so sweetly contained now, trapped under Jon’s body. And he’s so _hot_ , physically so hot, and there’s so much friction, even with the lube Lovett fingered into himself, and this—it feels so different than it does with a condom. As a teenager Jon had thought men were lying about that but it does, it does. It’s making his _scalp_ tingle. He pins Lovett’s calves down with his feet for good measure while he fucks in a fourth time, harder, hearing Lovett’s hiss of drawn-in breath as he takes it.

Jon has an idea—maybe he’s had the idea this whole time—how _long_ has it been?—that he’s gonna go slow. He really thinks he will. But Lovett takes it so fucking beautifully, and within a minute his hips are snapping harder. He doesn’t know how to _stop,_ braced over Lovett’s back, gritting his teeth in concentration, fucking as deep and as hard and as good as he can. He feels like he's literally getting drunk on the sounds Lovett makes, the oh oh _oh,_ still dazed and shocky and dreamy. Jon can distantly hear himself saying, "you needed it so bad, you needed it, tell me." He makes himself hold off from fucking back in until Lovett says, "come _on—_ "

"what—"

"gimme—"

 _"what—_ "

"Your dick, I need, please, your dick," and Jon’s slamming back in, _was that so hard_ , and pistoning, he can't help it, bending over Lovett and biting the back of his neck.

It gets extremely intense extremely quickly. Jon’s fucking Lovett so hard that his arms are shaking from bracing himself, and the headboard is hitting the wall, digging a deeper and deeper dent in the ugly wallpaper. The springs are creaking under him in a way that he finds superbly satisfying; almost as satisfying as the sound of Lovett half-screaming for it underneath him, sobbing, pushing back to meet him as hard as he can each time Jon slams in again.

He knows he’s gonna come soon. He knows he can’t hold off for long. He’s got about thirty seconds left in him, tops, so he shoves in hard and stills, holds himself there, as deep as he can, every muscle in his back trembling with the effort. He wants—no—he needs Lovett to come first. He _needs_ it.

 _Make it good for you_ , he thinks, pressing a messy kiss to the arch of Lovett’s back. _Take care of you_.

He can tell that Lovett’s right on the edge. It’s not going to take much, probably, but it makes him crazy not to know what the thing is that will tip him over. He feels in his bones that he _should_ know. That he should be able to bite the right place on his neck, touch his dick just right, grind his hips, and know that he’s hitting all Lovett’s buttons. He hates that he doesn’t know the right thing already. Doesn’t know his body like he’s going to.

So he goes for what he knows will work and reaches around. He gets a hand on Lovett’s wet cock, smeared with precome, lube, spit—God, he’s wrecking Lovett, making him messy, making him _Jon’s—_ and traces the underside with his ring finger, very gently, just exploring for a moment. It still feels like this is a dream he might wake up from, and he has to enjoy every last detail of it before it ends. Lovett makes a desperate little choking noise underneath him. He’s shifting his hips like he doesn’t know whether to go forward or back.

Jon keeps moving in him, stroking his dick, gentle fingers and hard fucking, feeling Lovett vibrate inside that contrast. With his other hand, he smacks Lovett’s ass again, his perfect ass, digs his nails in a little more, scrapes at the soft skin. "Mine," he says, and when he feels Lovett’s dick jerk in his hand, he braces himself back on the bed and says it again, insists, "mine, no one else—"

"No one," Lovett says without prompting, his voice wild. Jon has to close his eyes for a moment.

"Gonna fuck you whenever you need it. Whenever you want it. Gonna make you forget every guy you’ve ever fucked, forget every dick you’ve ever touched, just mine, say—"

"yours—"

"—it, Lovett, _Christ_ , mine, mine." Jon can’t think, he knows he’s babbling, but Lovett’s sobbing beneath him and he says it again, "This is mine, you’re mine," and grips Lovett’s dick and squeezes once, hard, and—feels it pulse in his hand, hears Lovett groaning and gasping and his come falling in long spurts onto the bedspread, onto his own stomach, shoulders heaving. He tries to squirm away from Jon’s hand when he keeps squeezing, milking every drop of come out, through the last jutters.

And then—he feels giddy with it—Lovett came for _him_ —Jon’s driving back in, hand still on Lovett’s sensitive dick. He presses himself close along Lovett’s back, fucking him so hard it feels like it should be illegal; hips moving of their own accord, mindlessly, into Lovett’s limp, pliant body. He kisses his back and neck and the side of his face, hidden in the pillow, red and wet, and mutters, "gonna fuck you all the time now, know how bad you need it, gonna fuck your greedy ass every day, sweetheart, gonna give it to you so good—"

It’s the rising thought that he should maybe pull out that pushes him over the edge.

He belatedly pulls back, panicked, for a single heartbeat, just in time to see the second pulse of his come hit Lovett’s hole. It’s this sight—wet white on Lovett’s red hole—that makes him—fuck—lose his mind, he can’t, Christ, can’t do anything but shove right back in, through his own come, back into the clench of Lovett’s ass, needing more than anything to fill him up, to leave him dripping with it.

 _I shouldn’t. I shouldn’t—_ but shouldn’t is for, fuck, hours ago—shouldn’t is for another country. And Jon is still fucking Lovett, clean, long strokes, fucking that spurt of his own come as far as he can into the heat of Lovett’s ass, as he works through his own, almost painfully prolonged orgasm. God, he owns Lovett now. This is his ass. He's gonna take care of it.

"Filling you up," he groans. He hears Lovett, beneath him, say, "oh God, oh God," as Jon goes on, "full of my come, sweetheart, gonna hold it in, keep it in you, keep you full all the time—"

When it’s finally over, he lets himself collapse against Lovett, lets his dick slowly go limp in Lovett’s slick, full ass, until it slips out. He watches his come drip down Lovett’s leg. Watches Lovett’s breathing slow down, steady, the sweat drying on his back.

And when he finally slides under the covers beside Lovett, Lovett doesn’t complain at the arm draped across him. Doesn’t so much as twitch while Jon kisses any skin he can reach. "So good," he says, and lets a finger drift lazily down to Lovett’s asshole. Rubs it a little. Rubs his come in, slow, dreamy, obsessive, until Lovett falls asleep—until Jon falls asleep, too.


End file.
